


The Diaries

by justacr0w



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other, Reader-Insert, Swearing, implied/ referenced suicide attempts, this one is dark I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 08:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18616987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justacr0w/pseuds/justacr0w
Summary: A series of one-shots inspired by the album "The Heroin Diaries" by Sixx: A.M.A humanstuck AU, featuring Gamzee, an addict trying to recover, and you, who are trying to help him do that.Reader's past is based heavily on mine, so this is also kind of a coping fic on my part. There's some heavy shit in here, read at your own risk.





	1. Accidents Can Happen

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one is based on "Accidents Can Happen" by Sixx: A.M. Please give this song a listen if you're struggling.

"Gam?" you call through the closed door.

No answer.

Frowning slightly, you lay a hand on the knob and prepare to try the door. You're standing in the hallway outside Gamzee's apartment under the single working light on this floor. This really isn't the best neighborhood to be in, but you don't care. You're worried. Taking a deep breath, you turn the knob, surprised when it turns completely and the door clicks open to reveal a dark interior. 

You step inside slowly, not leaving the doorway for several moments as your eyes adjust to the dimness. As you stand there, you take in the messy state of Gamzee's studio apartment- clothes are scattered all over the place, several bottles of Faygo are piled within three feet of you, and you can tell he hasn't taken the trash out in a while. Your nostrils flare in recognition of the scent of garbage, but then they pick up on something else. A sick sort of smell, one you remember with a sinking feeling. It was how Gamzee smelled the first time you met him, when he was higher than a kite and curled up in the mouth of an alley while he waited for the high to wear down enough for him to get home. 

"Gam," you call again, knowing he has to be here somewhere. You scan the room and pick out a vaguely human-shaped lump in the corner next to the windows, which are covered by sheets tacked up to serve as curtains. There's a thin hand clutching a small spoon, poking out from a black sleeve, looking pale and weak. You step over, brows furrowing as your concern increases. 

Gamzee was supposed to meet you for lunch today, and you were going to celebrate his second month of being clean, but when he didn't show up or call you, you got worried. So here you are, standing in his dark apartment and staring at what you think is Gamzee curled up in a corner. 

The shape moves a little, the hand retreating back into the sleeve and dropping the spoon as you crouch in front of him. You reach out and your hand grazes a shoulder, but he jumps away from you, retreating even further into the corner, if that's possible. 

"Gam," you repeat slowly, sinking onto your butt to be more comfortable. "Talk to me, buddy. What's going on?" You're sure you know already but you want him to tell you anyway.

"(Name)?" His voice is low and husky, rough and full of pain. "Why are you here?"

"You missed our lunch date, Gam, and today's special, remember?" 

"No, it isn't... God, I'm motherfuckin' worthless, (Name). Can't you see that?" He curls up, hiding his face behind his knees. 

"What makes you say that?" You scoot closer, until you're next to him with an arm around his bony shoulders. 

"I motherfuckin' slipped up. Again." His voice breaks, and you can tell he's crying. 

You bite your lip to keep your own eyes dry, and pull him closer before speaking. "Hey now... Gam, it's okay. Accidents happen. We all fuck up sometimes."

"But it keeps fuckin' happening... I can't do this anymore, (Name)," he whispers. 

You give his shoulders a squeeze. "It takes a while, Gam. You just gotta give yourself time to heal, okay? It's just one day, not your whole life."

He's silent for a long, long time, but you know he's still crying. You can tell from the shaking shoulders and heaving breaths. You let him cry, keeping your arm around him. After a while, though, you nudge him gently. 

"Gam? Can you look at me for a minute?"

Slowly his head comes up and those beautiful, tired eyes meet yours. His skin is pallid, the bags under his eyes are deeper, and you wonder when he last slept. But you ignore that for the moment and smile at him. Then you do something you've never done in front of him before- you pull up your sleeves to expose your forearms. Your skin is laced with scars, old ones pale and faded, newer ones still dark and prominent. Gamzee stares at them, eyes widening slightly. 

"(Name)? What the motherfuck are those?"

"Scars, Gam," you say softly. "I never told you before 'cause you had too much other shit going on, but I used to cut. A lot. Sometimes fifty or sixty times in a single sitting. I'd wait a day or two and do it again. And I always told myself it would be the last time."

You pause, thinking back to old times, recalling just how you felt every time you slipped. How you hated yourself even more each time, because you thought you were stronger than that. It reminds you a little of how Gam must be feeling, which is why you're showing him the scars now. 

"But why, (Name)?" 

"Why did I do it? Fuck if I know. Sometimes I thought it was to punish myself for being a horrible friend, for being such a freak. Sometimes it was just to make sure I was still alive because I couldn't feel anything anymore. I needed the pain to tell me I was still human. But the point is, I was addicted to that pain. And quitting was the hardest fucking thing I had ever done."

"You did quit, though."

"Not for years, Gam. Do you know how long it's been since I cut last?"

He shakes his head slightly. 

"One year, if that. I kept messing up, every few days or every few months, I'd end up putting that blade back to my skin. I would make a new scar, usually deeper each time and closer and closer to the vein every time I messed up."

Gamzee's fingers are slowly tracing your scars now, his eyes not meeting yours. You want to pull the sleeves down but you know he needs this, so you leave them pushed up to your elbows. 

"How come you're telling me this shit now?" he asks finally.

"Because I know you need a friend right now, Gam. And I want you to know I understand what it's like to slip again and again, to see yourself failing no matter how hard you're trying to succeed." You pause, swallowing hard to hold back tears. "You are so much more than this. You haven't thrown it all away yet. You're getting better. And I'll be there for you every step."

He suddenly pulls you into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and burying his face in your shoulder. You hug him back, stroking his greasy hair and ignoring the stale scent of sweat clinging to him. He's shaking again as you hold him close. 

"Thank you so fuckin' much, (Name)," he mumbles, his breath hot against your neck. "So motherfuckin' much."

"No problem, Gamzee. I told you months ago I'm not giving up on you."

The two of you sit there for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, but then he pulls back and gives you his familiar goofy grin, even if it seems a little forced. 

"I probably need a motherfuckin' shower, huh?"

"More like definitely," you chuckle, and kiss his forehead.


	2. The Diaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter which gave the story its name. References "X-Mas in Hell," "Van Nuys," and "Dead Man's Ballet" by Sixx: A.M.

Looking down at the dirty, nearly destroyed notebook in your hands, you swallow hard. Gamzee's name is scrawled messily on the marbled cover in purple sharpie, barely visible under the grime and dirt that covers the thing. You're not sure if you really want to read this. Not now, not so soon after everything that's happened. 

It's borderline painful to even be in this apartment right now while he's in the hospital hooked up to a plethora of machines and under constant supervision to make sure he doesn't rip the IV out of his arm. Scratch that, it's fucking _excruciating_ to stand here amidst the mess of clothes and meals and god-knows-what else. You turn blindly to leave and hit the arm of the sofa, face-planting the floor and cursing loudly in the silence. 

"God damn it!" you snap at yourself, sitting up and rubbing your now bruised knee with one hand. 

Then you stop. The notebook has landed next to you, open to the first page only because the cover is about to come off. You can see Gamzee's familiar scrawling handwriting filling the page in the thin shaft of light coming from the window across the room. Slowly, you reach for it, pulling it across the floor but not picking it up. Then you read the first line and bite your lip.

> _Merry motherfuckin' Christmas._

You pause, chewing your lip compulsively. There's no date on the page. Only Gamzee's rambling words tell you when it was written. Christmas, probably this past one, just before you met him. Hesitantly you continue to read, hoping that somehow this will help you make sense of what's been on his mind.

> _That's what people are supposed to say, right?_  
>  _Exceptin' they up an' have somebody to say it to. They got friends or family, and they ain't been crouched up under some pine tree decorated with sparklin' ornaments and bullshit with a needle in their motherfuckin' arm like some crazy person in an apartment in LA.  
>  They ain't out of their minds, writin' in a motherfuckin' notebook, an' definitely not watchin' their holiday spirit coagulatin' in a spoon.  
>  I ain't spoken to a single motherfuckin' person today. I thought, why should I up an' ruin their fuckin' holiday?_

You have to pause again to swallow a lump in your throat. He had spent Christmas alone and getting high... You turn the page because there's nothing else on this one, and find what seems to be the true beginning of this particular story.

> _I've up an' started a new diary an' this time I got a few new reasons._  
>  _One, I have no fuckin' friends left._  
>  _Two, so I can read back an' remember what I did the day before.  
>  An' three, so if I die, at least I leave a nice little fuckin' suicide note of my life.  
>  It's just you an' me, diary, so welcome to my motherfuckin' life._

Pushing the notebook away, you curl up on the floor and choke back a sob. You can't believe he's gone through all of this alone. He's mentioned a few times that his brother cut him off because he couldn't get his act together, but you've always thought maybe his friends would have stuck around. Apparently not, from what he's written here.  
You feel your heart sinking a little lower with every word scrawled on the page. You find that the next entry is no better when you pull the notebook back again with tears still dripping down your cheeks.

> _Nobody would believe the shit that happens inside my motherfuckin' head. It's haunted. Now I've come down from the drugs, it seems like some sick motherfuckin' carnival I saw as a kid.  
>  Thirty fuckin' minutes ago, I could have up an' killed someone.  
>  Or better yet, I could have motherfuckin' killed myself._

You have to stop and finish crying; the pain you feel inside is too much. You can't stand knowing that Gamzee, your amazing, kindhearted, goofball Gamzee ever suffered this much. That he suffered this much completely alone.

Finally, after who knows how long, you wipe at your eyes and sniff loudly, picking up the notebook carefully and moving to the window where there's more light. Now that you've started reading, there's no going back. Flipping through the next few pages, you feel your eyes tearing up again but your cheeks are dry.

> _I don't wanna die out here in this valley, waitin' for my motherfuckin' luck to change. An' I just want my old man to know that I finally made it. Are you happy now, you cold-hearted bastard? After ignorin' me for half my life 'cause I ain't measured up to 'Loz an' all his success, are you fuckin' happy now?_  
>  _I don't wanna die out here in this valley, tellin' you not to up an' lie 'cause I know that's just what I'll end up doin'. I don't want my mom to know I never loved the life she died to give me. I don't want her to know I sold my soul to this shit.  
>  I dunno how the motherfuck to get back to how I was. I don't even know if I wanna go back to that. Underneath all the motherfuckin' dust an' dirt an' rust, I'm still lookin' for a pathway back.  
>  The sun sets so motherfuckin' fast these days..._

Closing the book firmly on your lap, you sniff one more time and stand up, face set in a determined frown. Tucking it under your arm, you return to the purpose of your visit and sift through the mounds of clothing for clean items you can take back to the hospital for him. Shoving the few articles into a bag, you make a mental note to come back and do laundry tomorrow after work so he'll have more to wear.

Then you march purposefully to the door, exit the silent apartment, lock his door with the key you managed to keep from the prying nurses, and head on back. You're spending the night with him, and to hell with anyone who gets in your way. Just as you told him months ago, you're not giving up on him so easily. Especially not now, when you've caught a glimpse into the hell he's lived in for the past fifteen years. Because now you can finally start to really understand him. You don't even notice the tears are flowing once again as you hail a cab back to the hospital.


	3. Permission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References "Permission" by Sixx: A.M.

He's laying a few feet from you, still hooked up to the machines and sleeping lightly, his dark hair spread out on the pillow in wild tangles. His skin is less waxy and sick-looking now; you suspect it's because he's actually eating a little and managing to keep it down.

You're curled up in a hospital-standard reclining chair near the window, dressed in yesterday's clothes with a light blanket thrown across your knees. In your hands is the dirty notebook you found a week ago in Gamzee's apartment, and you've been steadily reading your way through it as he sleeps. When he's awake, which is only for a few hours every day (the doctors assure you that's normal- he's still getting the drugs out of his system and his body is trying valiantly to recover from the overdose), you sit close to the bed and talk with him. About anything and everything except the current situation. You don't want him to try and deal with that right now, not so soon. 

> _I don't know if you'll ever motherfuckin' see this, (Name), but I gotta get this shit off my chest. Ever since I met you, my life is a motherfuckin' whirlwind and I don't know which way is up anymore._  
>  _I've been sittin' here for hours, maybe I fell asleep or some shit cuz the coffee is fuckin' cold as hell now and I remember makin' it not too long ago. Some fuckin' day you'll have to make sense of this bullshit life I've lived until now an' I'm motherfuckin' sorry as shit that you'll up an' have to deal with that.  
>  I'm takin' off all the motherfuckin' armor I've worn until now, an' I'm gonna let you see the demons. I fuckin' hope they don't up an' scare you away like every-fuckin-body else.  
>  Dammit, my thoughts are all up in flames an' I can't finish a single sentence except for what I'm tryin' so fuckin' hard to tell you. I can't keep this inside my head anymore._

You pause in your reading and rub furiously at your eyes, not wanting to cry again. Gamzee wrote this entry less than three weeks after meeting you, according to the date scribbled at the top. So you did get through to him, at least a little. Shifting your legs into a more comfortable position in the shitty hospital chair, you continue reading. 

> _I wake up in the morning, and it comes back to you. I breathe in, I breathe out, it comes back to you. I stare up at my fuckin' ceiling, and it comes back to you. If I step out my front door, it fuckin' comes back to you. At the end of the hallway, it comes back to you. Brake lights on the highway, an' it comes back to you. I could die in Hollywood, it would fuckin' come back to you._

You pause again and glance over at him, watching the late afternoon light play across his features with a faint, bemused smile on your lips. He shifts, making a soft grunt, and tosses his head. You set the notebook aside, get up, and pad silently over to the bed to lay the inside of your wrist on his forehead. Warm, but not overly so. He's not shaking or sweating, either. You're glad to see he's finally getting some good sleep.

Unsure of the last time you yourself actually slept, you shrug, kiss his forehead, and return to your chair (the hospital staff gave up trying to eject you from the room after two days, and you're glad for it), which has become your temporary bed/ resting place. Picking up the notebook one last time, you finish reading this entry. 

> _Every-fuckin-thing comes back to you, (Name). Whenever I try thinkin' about the future, I see you with me. Maybe I'm just a weak motherfucker who doesn't know a damn thing about anything. But I know I want you by my side no matter what an' I hope to god I don't up an' push you away like I did everybody else. Like I did with 'Loz and Kar and Tav. I fuckin' want you here with me cuz without you I don't know if I can beat this shit. You're my reason for fuckin' holdin' on, (Name), you an' that smile of yours that you keep givin' me even when I know I've gone an' fucked up everything. Please don't fuckin' leave me. Please._

With a slight sigh, you close the notebook and tuck it back into your bag. Gamzee is such a sweetheart, you think to yourself. Despite everything he's been through and the mistakes he's made over the years, his heart never hardened completely and for that, you're grateful. 

You stand once more and head to the bathroom to make sure your face shows no evidence of crying when the nurse comes in at four, ten minutes from now. You check your reflection critically, noting the dark circles around your eyes and the pale cast to your skin and the way your hair hangs lankly against your face. Oh well. You'll go home and shower later. Right now you just want to be here with Gamzee, and fuck anything else. 

Back in his room, you go to the bed and sit gingerly on the edge of it, taking his sleeping hand in yours and squeezing it gently. You lean in and kiss his forehead for the third time today, then press your brow to his and close your eyes. 

"I'm not going anywhere, Gam," you whisper. "I'm here. I promise."

"(Name)?" His voice is quiet and rough from sleep. "That you?"

"Yeah, Gam."

He pauses before speaking again. "You... you found the thing I wrote, didn't you?"

You smile a little. "Mm-hm. Sorry."

"I fuckin' wanted you to see it, (Name). Cuz now I can finally tell you the last thing, the thing I could never fuckin' say out loud until now. I couldn't even write the shit down."

"What's that, Gam?" you ask curiously, and he squeezes your hand tightly, almost painfully. You can't believe the words that come out of his mouth next, though you're not surprised. Not after all this.

"I motherfuckin' love you, (Name)." 

After a slight, startled pause, your smile widens and you squeeze his hand again. "Love you too, Gam."


End file.
